| |
Even though it was terrific to be born in an age where
comic-fiction, robots and even shiny white spaceships
were coming true, it was odd how the human spirit
still seemed as deep and mysterious as the vastly
uncharted universe itself – and equally as borderless.
So, setting out with great hope to find the secret
source of happiness and success, I began my journey
to the centre of the unknown. There were certainly
lots of puzzles to solve.
Like a lot of kids, I had many questions that could
not be easily answered. Looking enquiringly around
at this wild new world into which I had landed, the
road of life was obviously not without certain pitfalls
and dangers; the Second World War had just ended and
millions of people had been killed - but for what?
Sometimes, staring out of the window into the vastness
of the deep black night I would wonder, 'Where does
the sky end?' The thought of death frightened me.
'What came afterwards?' My mind could not penetrate
beyond the veil of darkness. Was I alone?
|
In the blackness of the night
I seem to wander endlessly
With a hope burning out deep inside
I'm a fugitive; community has driven me out
For this bad, bad world I’m beginning to doubt
I'm alone and there is no one by my side
In the blackness of the night
I see a shadow passing by
From the heels of an old soldier boy.
There's no compromising
And his eyes are black as the sky
For this bad, bad world he is going to die.
He's alone and there is no one by his side
In the blackness of the night
I see a sparkle of a star
From the sweet silver tear of a child
And she's clutching at a photograph of long, long
ago
When her parents were happy she was too young to
know
She's alone and there is no one by her side
I'm alone and there is no one by my side
In the blackness of the night
I seem to wander endlessly
With a hope burning out deep inside
I'm a fugitive; community has driven me out
For this bad, bad world I’m beginning to doubt
I'm alone, and there is no one by my side
|
| BLACKNESS
OF THE NIGHT |
| |
But now behold, in the quick forge, and working
house of thought, how London doth pour out her citizens
|
| (William
Shakespeare) |
Like
galaxies, bright and sparkling with life, for me,
it was like that being born at the heart of London’s
Theatre district, the West End, a sort of ‘fantasy
land’ full of coffee bars, shops, theatres and
cinemas. Observing the world was like looking through
a store window, glittering with stardust. At one end
of my road stood Piccadilly’s Eros, a symbol
of that whirling, colourful scene of vibrant activity.
Opportunities were all around me.
Perhaps, like most new-borns starting out in life,
I felt I was the centre of the universe. But there
were serious problems facing me. My identity was still
rather unclear: my Father was from Cyprus, my Mother
was from Sweden, and our dominant culture at home
was British. To add to that, my mother was originally
from a Baptist background, my Father was Greek Orthodox,
and I went to a local Roman Catholic School in Drury
Lane. So I was forced very early on to be open-minded.
I remember looking at the choices given to me. Religion
was constantly making me feel guilty, warning me about
immorality and dangers of this fleshly life. These
were represented in clear pictorial terms by the Devil,
depicted with two horns; the temptation of Adam and
Eve and the forbidden fruit; and Jesus suffering on
the Cross, representing the key to salvation. But
balancing those kinds of fearful images with the zappy,
fun-filled entertainment that was taking place outside
the doors of the Church, well…the centre of
the universe for me was not in Religion - it was probably
closer to the city streets and arcades. |
Lovely city, when do you laugh?
Stoney people, what do you have?
Well, you ride around on a bright shiny cloud
And you think that you've found true happiness
There's no method in your mind
And your tempers are kind
Is it too much to ask to give it a rest?
Lovely city, when do you laugh?
Stoney people, what do you have?
I'm a part of you, you don't wanna be
I'm an unexpected visitor who's dropped in for tea
But I’m not so low you don't even know that
I’m here
You can't even see
Lovely city, when do you laugh?
Stoney people, what do you have?
|
| LOVELY CITY
(WHEN DO YOU LAUGH?) |
My
father was a hard-working man; at the end of every
day, he would stand at the café’s old
baroque till, counting the pounds, pennies and halfpennies.
He taught us the value of having enough food on the
table and discouraged waste. Dad had come a long way
from his native village, Tala, situated on a hill
overlooking the ancient coastal city of Paphos in
Southern Cyprus. He grew up in a household where even
a pair of shoes was considered a luxury, but my father
was never ashamed of his humble background. 'Money
doesn't grow on trees!' he never tired of reminding
us.
Dad gave me a job in the Restaurant after school as
a waiter, so I learnt to earn my pocket money from
the tips given by customers. It was also here that
I first realised - like my father must have done -
that serving the public well can often be highly rewarding. |
Up at eight, you can't be late
For Matthew & son, he won't wait.
Watch them run down to platform one
And the eight-thirty train to Matthew & son.
Matthew & son, the work's never done,
there's always something new.
The files in your head, you take them to bed,
you're never ever through.
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!
There's a five-minute break and that's all you take,
For a cup of cold coffee and a piece of cake.
Matthew & son, the work's never done,
there's always something new.
The files in your head, you take them to bed,
you're never ever through.
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!
He's got people who've been working for fifty years
No one asks for more money cuz nobody cares
Even though they're pretty low and their rent's
in arrears
Matthew & son, Matthew & son,
Matthew & son, Matthew & son,
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!
|
| MATTHEW
& SON |
| Rise above time
and space, pass by the world, and be yourself your own
world. |
| (Shabistari)
|
My
best friend, Andy, and I would often play together
around the bombed ruins that littered parts of the
city, frequently strewn with broken glass, mud and
smashed bricks. But our favourite escapade was to
go out late evenings and dangerously scale the local
buildings, climbing high up onto the rooftops. From
those heights we'd gaze at the noisy city below, undeclared
secret champions of London's skyline.
Everything in this society was geared towards 'making
it'. The American image of the good life was projected
everywhere: films and television were just flooding
in. The emphasis was to be on top: get rich, be young,
healthy, wealthy and street-wise. Indeed I was - and
roof-wise as well! I wanted to be an artist, a cartoonist.
Then I found out that Van Gogh, one of my favourite
painters, died poor and earless, and I realised that
perhaps this wasn’t quite the life for me. There
was a need for something a little bit more instant
– a fast track.
Suddenly there came the big music boom of Merseyside
and the Beatles - British Pop had arrived. Gravity
had shifted; it was now in U.K. Suddenly there was
a big window of opportunity for us youngsters. So
I picked up a guitar, chose the name Cat Stevens,
and started writing. It wasn't long before I had my
first couple of hit records; my name and photo was
splashed all over the media and I was on the road
- at the grand old age of eighteen!
|
The view from the top can be oh so very lonely
And you can be missing such a lot that could be
yours
Why can't I stop forgetting myself?
Why am I always trying to be like somebody else
Why can't I love you?
Why bother flying high above you
I know where you are
The view from the top can be oh so very lonely
And you can be missin' such a lot that could be
yours
And who's going to miss me?
There’ll only be myself to blame
You know I'd love to hold you tight
And love you all the night
But I don't even know my name
Why can't I stop forgetting myself?
Why am I always trying to be like somebody else?
Why can't I love you?
Why bother flying high above you
I know where you are
The view from the top can be oh so very lonely
And you can be missin' such a lot that could be
yours
|
| THE VIEW
FROM THE TOP |
| |
| |
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
|
|
